


A Sherlockian Christmas

by BehindBrokenWindows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Presents, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindBrokenWindows/pseuds/BehindBrokenWindows
Summary: John hopes for a silent, uneventful Christmas morning, and is almost convinced that nothing will come up to drag him and Sherlock from their chairs - until there's an e-mail about a case and he's forced to follow Sherlock who's left in a hurry.Upon their return from the disappointing case, Sherlock's apologies lead from one thing to another, and finally they get what they really want for Christmas.





	A Sherlockian Christmas

"Sherlock!" John yelled, coming up the stairs to his and Sherlock's rooms in Baker Street. There was no answer, but to be honest, John hadn't expected one.

The flat was just as much a mess as it had been an hour earlier when he'd left, and Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Which wasn't surprising at all, nine o'clock on Christmas morning. Especially considering the little party they'd thrown last night, and the amount of alcohol consumed.

"Sherlock!" John yelled again, and an affirmative groan came from the bedroom down the hall. John chuckled and didn't hesitate to walk in Sherlock's door, leaning on the frame.

"Morning," John said cheerily, trying to hide his amusement. All he could see of Sherlock was the mop of dark curls on the pillow, the rest of his lean body hidden under fluffy covers. Sherlock groaned again. "Didn't you say you'd tidy up a bit?" John crossed his arms and tried to look stern as Sherlock rolled around in bed and looked up at him, all plump lips and messy hair.

"You just left," he said, his deep voice sounding like gravel rippling up his throat, groggy from sleep and alcohol.

"I've been out an hour! It's already nine thirty!" At that Sherlock sprang up from the bed and swayed dramatically as he put his hands to his head.

"What? You were just here!" Seeing the detective standing in nothing but his blue pyjamas trousers, clearly focusing on how to not fall over was John's highlight on this specific morning. "An hour? What took you so long?"

"The streets are chaos, it's been snowing all night. Thought you'd be able to deduce as much from the snow on my shoulders or whatever." Big white flakes were still falling regularly from the sky and John couldn't deny that he felt a bit giddy at the whole atmosphere. Secretly he loved Christmas. Well, he could say secretly, but he didn't hold much hope that Sherlock hadn't noticed how unusually wide his smiles had been this last week building up to Christmas.

Sherlock ignored him and strode past him to the kitchen, still bare chested. John found he didn't mind so much.

"A cuppa would be nice, while you're at it," John called and went to his chair, opening the paper in his lap in case something had happened the last twenty-four hours that he ought to know about.

To his enormous surprise, Sherlock put a cup of steaming tea down beside him as he went over to his own chair. John put down his paper and studied the man directly in front of him more closely.

He looked a bit grey, incredibly tired, and hungover. It was such an unusual sight that John had to properly take it in and bask in the feeling that for once he might just be more alert that the world's only consulting detective. Despite all that he was irrevocably attractive, to John's great agitation.

He'd played for them last night, on Mrs Hudson's request, though John would have forced him to if nobody else had. John remembered how his graceful fingers had skidded over the neck of his precious violin, how he'd swayed lightly to the music and blushed as he bowed to the applause as he finished up. Sherlock always said how he hated it, but secretly – John knew – he was immensely pleased.

Lestrade had been there, Molly, and to everyone's surprise Mycroft had stopped by for ten minutes to wish everyone a Merry Christmas while looking like he'd bit down on an especially sour lemon. John appreciated it anyway. He wasn't the best of friends with Mycroft Holmes – nobody were, to be honest – but they had one important thing in common that made John, at least, ignore their differences; to take care of Sherlock whatever the cost. And John would always do that, even if it simply meant to make sure he had at least two meals a day and a bit of sleep.

Then Mike Stamford had come, and everyone started making the idle chatter Sherlock despised so much, resulting in his imminent drunkenness that had been funny for everyone, as Sherlock started reciting poems none of them had ever heard of.

"Here." John reached for one of the gifts under the little tree beside him, that Mrs Hudson had insisted on getting them, and read the note. "To Sherlock from Molly."

Sherlock huffed, but opened it anyway, barely glancing at what it was. He didn't care about the gifts and seemingly hadn't given a single one himself.

There weren't many gifts under the tree and they had soon opened them all, not getting anything worth notification, but John still made a mental note to thank everyone from the both of them. The last gift under the tree was from John himself, to Sherlock.

"John..." Sherlock started.

"I know you said I shouldn't get you anything, but I figured you'd need this anyway." John tried to keep his face neutral as Sherlock opened it and revealed different material for his experiments, including some test tubes.

Because only two weeks ago, John had jolted awake in the middle of the night to the singling of glass from downstairs. He hadn't bothered to go and check, as it was a relatively usual occurrence in 221B Baker Street. In the morning, however, he'd gone down to the kitchen and found Sherlock asleep over his instruments. When he'd woken up, he'd forgotten about the shards of glass strayed around his feet and walked right through them, then howled out in anguish, making John lurch out of his seat in the living room.

It had taken almost an hour to get all the bits of glass out of Sherlock's feet, and plenty of complaining from the man himself. Especially when he found out he wouldn't be able to walk without flinching for two days. But he had thanked John afterwards, and John found he didn't at all mind taking care of Sherlock, pulling the shards out of his feet with his tweezers, holding his heel as he brushed the pads of his feet with alcohol and listened to Sherlock hissing dramatically in pain. John had guided him to the sofa, and once he was on his back John couldn't resist the urge to brush the curls away from Sherlock's face and reassure him that he would be fine soon enough.

"Thank you." For the first time since he'd started opening presents Sherlock's smile was genuine, and John felt pride bloom in his chest. Sherlock needed what John had given him, and John knew that was the only reason the present had been accepted. "I haven't got you anything."

John hadn't expected to get anything. He'd hoped, of course, felt excited every time he remembered that he _might_ get a present from this so-called machine that he knew wasn't a machine at all. Sherlock had changed a bit these last weeks; he was less sharp in his tone; his smiles looked a bit more real, and John couldn't remember the last time he'd felt offended when Sherlock had insulted him, because with every passing day it was like he meant them less. But nobody had noticed, except John. He told himself it was because he knew Sherlock better than anyone, but it was probably due to that fact that nobody studied him as closely, as fervently, as John did.

And because of this little change in demeanour, John felt a twinge of disappointment at not getting anything from Sherlock.

"'s alright," he promised, but knew Sherlock probably caught the resignation on his face and in his voice. He'd decided to stop trying to hide anything from Sherlock Holmes. It never worked anyway.

John's phone beeped conveniently and he pulled it out of his pocket, grateful for something to end the thick silence.

"Somebody sent you an email," he said to Sherlock as he skimmed over it. "It's a case. On Christmas morning, too!" he said, like he couldn't fathom the nerve of the girl.

"An email to me, on your phone?" Sherlock exclaimed with dismay.

"Yeah, I got in to it some time ago, knowing you barely ever check your emails. One of us need to do it or you'll start shooting the wall from boredom again."

"What does it say?"

John read the email aloud, and had barely finished when Sherlock sprang from his chair and got dressed in his room on record time.

"Come along, John!" John barely had the time to take a breath before Sherlock was halfway down the stairs. Fuming, he got up and grabbed his jacket and gloves before following the impossible man out into the December storm.

*

"Stupid waste of a day," Sherlock growled as they finally reached their door on Baker Street later that afternoon. Nobody were out in the streets, it was getting dark, and it hadn't ceased snowing throughout the day.

"For all they knew he could've been kidnapped!" John argued.

"Asleep in the shed, John, asleep! They were insisting that he'd gone to the store and picked up some food – must've disappeared on the way, they said! There weren't even any footsteps leading through the gate! Idiots."

To John's great surprise, Sherlock didn't enter the flat, but sat down in the snow on the stairs outside. John crouched down beside him in absence of a big coat to sit on. Sherlock's hair was adorned with slowly melting flakes of snow and his eyes caught the light from the street lamps adoringly, enhancing the pale magnificence in them. His cheeks were rosy from cold, but he didn't seem to notice – it was like he was glowing with some great force from the inside that kept him warm despite the weather.

John clasped his hands in front of himself and tried to take no notice of the well-known surge of feeling tumbling through him as he looked at the man in front of him. He was in deep, he'd been in deep for a while, but it wouldn't do – he'd simply have to live with it, preferring to ignore the feelings entirely over moving out. No matter which way they were together, it was enough – Sherlock was his best friend and John hoped that would always be the case, knowing he had no chance with the man.

"It's beautiful, like this," Sherlock commented, and waved his hand demonstratively at the Christmas lights and the now slowly falling snowflakes. John almost toppled over.

"You think so?"

"You think so, I can tell." John wasn't about to comment that the adoring expression that had probably been on his face and insinuated this deduction from Sherlock was due to his studying Sherlock and not the world around, even though the mix of the two made everything even better.

"Well, it is Christmas."

"I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."

"I already told you, it's all right. Don't think about it."

"No, it's not! I wanted to get you something, I really did I just... didn't know what to get you," Sherlock said hesitantly and looked away. John was stunned to silence for a moment.

"You... didn't know what to get me? Couldn't you just deduce what I wanted?"

"I can't know everything, John!" Sherlock snapped. "I wasn't sure what would make you happy, I didn't want to get it wrong."

"Sherlock," John couldn't help but mutter, and felt a bit warm inside. He'd never seen the detective insecure before, and simply because he didn't know what to get John for Christmas!

"I knew you'd get me something I'd want, that you'd succeed, and so I didn't want to disappoint. And now I pulled you out of the flat and ruined your Christmas morning because of those idiots, and -" Sherlock turned to John and looked at him with wide, innocent eyes that begged forgiveness. And John just wanted to press his lips to Sherlock's despite how cold they must be.

"I don't mind, honestly. Getting out of the house, seeing you so excited about something do to – having and excuse to chase through London on Christmas morning – I'd never mind that. Not with you." John realised what he'd said a bit too late, but didn't try to make it better by finding an excuse. It wouldn't help in the least. So he licked his lips, holding Sherlock's gaze for a moment, then turned away.

"John. There's something I'd like to ask, please don't lie. I know you don't want to talk about it, but it needs to be done." Sherlock hesitated, and John closed his eyes with dread. "Do you – that is, have you… feelings for me?"

Not caring about the snow any more, John sat down on the stairs and covered his face with his hands. He groaned.

"Yeah, Sherlock, good deduction. It's not like it's been a couple of months already."

"A couple of months?" Sherlock asked in surprise, and John just nodded, wondering what he could do to make sure this didn't get awkward between them. "Oh John, you really aren't of the observant type, are you?" John felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked up, letting his hands slide helplessly off his face.

"To be fair I did observe the cold you were getting in September long before you did."

"I didn't have a cold! I haven't been sick since I was a child!"

"You're still a child, and yes you were, you were in bed for two days, down with 40 in fever and a sore throat!" There was affection in John's voice though, because Jesus he loved that ridiculous man.

Sherlock chuckled and smiled genuinely, again.

"I might have been a bit out of it." John got up from the steps and ascended the stairs all the way to their living room. He poured himself a glass of red wine and handed one to Sherlock as he came in behind him and shrugged out of his big coat. The detective scrunched up his nose but sipped the drink anyway.

"For months, you said?" John had hoped he'd managed to avoid that conversation, at least for today, but Sherlock was insistent. So he simply shrugged, but didn't move as Sherlock stepped closer and towered over him. He couldn't tear his eyes away from that multi-coloured gaze. He was captivated by the world he found in them.

"You aren't so observant yourself, I'd say, if you didn't notice before now," John challenged.

"Were you that obvious then?"

"I thought so. Was quite surprised every time I thought I'd been too obvious but you didn't mention anything."

"Maybe I was a bit too preoccupied then, thrown off guard – distracted." Sherlock's voice was nothing but a baritone whisper in the end, that vibrated through John's body wonderfully. He indulged shamelessly in the feeling.

" _You_? Distracted by what?" And all of a sudden it dawned on John. How Sherlock stopped in his tracks in the middle of a deduction if John complimented him, or simply if their eyes locked for too long. How Sherlock was married to his work – and had made John such an important part of it; always bringing him with, always listening to what he said with care. How Sherlock's insults were becoming increasingly _affectionate_ , if john could believe it.

Sherlock sucked his plump bottom lip into his mouth and yet again John was struck dumb by how beautiful that man could be.

"John..." Sherlock begged and shivers ran down John's spine. Carefully, still full of doubt, John filled the space between them and put two careful fingers on Sherlock's jaw almost reverently. Sherlock's eyes fluttered close and he swallowed deeply, leaning in to the touch.

"Sherlock Holmes, brought to distraction by someone like John Watson? Bet you can't even focus when I'm this close, can you?" A smiled played over John's lips and the teasing tone of his whispered words tickled at Sherlock and he opened his eyes again.

"'course I can," Sherlock parried and placed one shaky hand on John's hip.

"And what about if I'm this close?" John whispered and captured Sherlock's cold lips with his own. Tasting the red wine on his tongue, feeling the quiver to his lips as Sherlock kissed him back unbelievingly.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock." John reached up and tangled his hand in Sherlock's thick curls.

"Merry Christmas, John."

John stopped using the bedroom upstairs after that. Mrs Hudson noticed it at once, of course, but wouldn't comment on it for weeks, letting the boys take their time and adjust before having to confront others.

Lestrade certainly had a good laugh, Molly was delighted, and Mycroft – let's just say he didn't look all too happy, but John could swear there was something approving in his eyes when he looked at him.

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a year ago on Wattpad, then wanted to post it here again this Christmas as I didn't have time to write anything new.
> 
> I hope you liked this - just a bit of cuteness during the holidays :)
> 
> Please comment and leave kudos if you liked it :)


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